Scenes From Unwritten Novels 1.24

When I awoke up from being dead I was met by my Executive Producer Chad.  His “HELLO MY NAME IS” sticker had C#8D. I could not pronounce it when he said it, so I called him Chad.

He let out a loud belly laugh that appeared like he was trying too hard but after the first minute I was convinced he meant it and he had.

“Oh, you so and so, the viewing public prized the monikers you gave to folks. A great number of the fanbase actually named themselves after the nicknames and formed groups. There was some violence but we can discuss that later. It is an honour for you to name me.”

I was sent along the way to the “Life to Post-Life” transfer station via an internal rail system. I had a whole train car to myself. Chad along with a phalanx of assistants were catering to my every need and preparing for the info dump. I was a star and I am dead.

Chad was a talker and it appears he let out more then he should have. His assistants also broke protocol and wanted my signature. Apparently licking a 2 x 2 clear plastic sheet with my image on it was a signature here.

We are not a simulation but it is close. We are programming, entertainment. We do have free will but Executive Producers for each person can influence certain choices. Though the fans don’t appreciate too much meddling these days. They want it natural.

Chad started prattling on about the breaths taken. They don’t call them ratings or views but breaths. Apparently, I was a reliable manufacturer of content. Though I lived a pretty predictable standard life, something about me caught on.

“Breaths for extraordinary people tapped out. There is no realism to the spectators, they can only see someone do boundless things so many times. The crowd loves normal unsuccessful broken people they can relate too. Like you.” Explained my guardian angel.

“Um, thanks, I think.” I said.

Chad stared at me, kneeled down in front of me at crotch level, put his hands on my knees. I was already uncomfortable and he mentioned my wife. “We have to talk about Sarah’s Executive Producers and her fanbase.”

“The biggest breaths for both your shows was the affairs you had, you naughty boy. It was a hit but her fanbase was a tad upset, some would say incensed. In fact, 1 or 2 of our group here are security. Her fans know you’ve arrived and they are upset but we have a plan. A few interviews with a Sarah friendly host or two will fix that all up.”

“They know about the affairs?”

“We… all… do. You’re a star.” He said, slowly and awkwardly.

“I’ve watched them on reruns a few times. Honestly, I’m impressed. Those ladies were way out of your league and you sealed the deal. Nice work.”

Scenes From Unwritten Novels 1.23

Mr. Lim appeared befuddled as he opened his door to a very thin gentleman. Nearly skeletal, gaunt and unnourished, Wednesday walked in sporting a three-piece wool suit and a fedora circa the 1940s.

The already seated Thursday and Tuesday with their combined mix of pink and blue hair and low-cut dresses, locked eyes, grabbed each other’s hand under the table, grinned, smirked and snickered at his fashion choice.

During the preceding gathering a century ago in Brazil, Wednesday arrived, outfitted as a French noble man. Wednesday continuously has had problems with mankind and their outlandish choices. The rest of them blamed his specific slot in the middle of their cemented pattern. They often found him confused, unable to concentrate.

Mr. Lim, watched this and remained confused. He did not recollect precisely why he rented out his restaurant for the evening. He recognized that boundless profit was involved. He recalled the basics of allowing his staff the night off paid…PAID? He remembered announcing it but he himself could not accept it as true.

A knock on his door took his attention away from his inward fog to the outside.  A leather clad, blonde spikey haired young man came in with outlandish sideburns. All of his fingers were saddled with extravagant large rings that shone bright. Friday had arrived.

He carried 2 books with him as well as a tablet that he was currently head down reading. As he always did, he used these gathering to discuss the arts of the day. Thursday and Tuesday whispered that it was just for show. He probably couldn’t read as they giggled to themselves.

When the days of the week were first beckoned by the boundless influences that control what we are, they arrived to the original meetings, mostly naked and confused. The rawness of these early assemblies had them meet in stark surroundings, forests, jungles, deserts.

As they acclimatized over the centuries to the predicament they were in, Sunday seemed to get unifying authority and was able to interconnect via feel influence and other stimuli to establish a time and place. He suggested his thoughts and messages into the cosmos to the others through intuition, fate and happenstance.

They had met in Prussia, Australia, or the land before it was named in the modern sense, the state of Venice and other locales.

Mr. Lim again tried to focus, but the fog in his head was too much. Monday walked in and chimed in with a sing songy “hellloooooooo!!!!”

She was carrying a large box with personalized gifts for all. With name tags and wrapping that was colour coordinated to suit everyone. Wearing a flowered dress that seemed to rotate slowly even as she stood still. The yellow sun hat seemed to emit a light on her. She was remarkably cheery and joyful.  She took two steps back and did a summersault which briefly showed her unmentionables. Juxtaposed with her caramel skin the purposefully positioned yellow daisy on her underpants stood out.  Thursday and Tuesday both believed that Monday was manufacturing the smile. Making up for the decades long undesirable status that has been burdened on her.

Saturday arrived. He stood tall. 6 foot 10, broad shoulders with a 7-foot wing span. His lengthy hair and beard, had an even grey pattern that flowed. He was dressed in black with a walking cane that he did not need. The cane had a silver wolfs head as the handle, with the teeth on full display.

Saturday asked for attention. “Eyes on me” he yelled at Thursday and Tuesday who were mocking his looks in their usual sardonic manner. He announced and proclaimed that Sunday, would again not be coming.

One and all objected noisily. This had been Sunday’s custom, habit and pattern and most were disappointed.